Page 113 of Wicked Duty
Images of Ella—the last girl to die on my watch—overwhelm me. I inhale a steadying breath through my nose and try not to succumb to the fear pulsing through my veins.
No panicking. I refuse to allow what went down with Ella to ever happen again.
I console myself with the knowledge that Lucy’s tough as hell. She’s survived worse. She’ll survive this too. If she can just hold on until help arrives.
I’ll stab myself in the chest before I let anyone harm her.
Benetti’s already a dead man walking.
When the call ends, I phone Darren.
He picks up on the second ring. “What?”
“Are you with Veronika?”
“Yes.”
“And Lucy?”
Darren’s hesitation conveys everything.
My chest compresses. “We lost her.”
“What?”
“Get me the New York address of Marco Benetti, and then get a team over there. He has Lucy and a second hostage, a model named Heather Kincaid. There’s no time to waste.”
I’m still alone on the patio. Shane’s gone, and Rory hasn’t yet come to collect the laptop and the crypto wallet. I swipe the small thing off the table and shove it into my pocket.
Shane’ll be furious when he realizes I stole it back. And if I lose the wallet in whatever happens next, I know my life will be forfeit. I may already be a dead man for double-crossing him in his own home, but I accept that risk.
I’ll gladly pay any price to improve the odds of Lucy’s survival.
If she’s killed, my life will be meaningless again anyway.
The wallet is the best bargaining chip I have with this Benetti fuck. A trade may be the only way to extract Lucy fromthis situation. As a last resort, I can use it as leverage to obtain backup from the Kings.
Blood pulses in my temples. I’ll fix this and rescue my wildcat.
No matter what I need to sacrifice.
Chapter 44
Lucy
Evening light bathes Marco Benetti’s luxury house in shades of amber. An open floor plan bordered by curving walls showcases larger-than-life portraits of his most iconic spreads. His handsome countenance smolders at me from all directions, as if mocking my presence. I follow Marco deeper into his place, one of his—or should I say Viktor’s?—men trailing close behind in case I get any ideas about trying to flee.
A low, serpentine couch curls through the center of the mile-long room. An enormous flat-screen television hangs above a free-standing fireplace, and a gorgeous veranda extends beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass panels to my left.
Past Marco’s narcissistic shrines—they grace every table, counter, shelf—the space narrows into a dim hallway, our footsteps muffled by plush woven rugs.
The scent of expensive cologne that saturates every area churns my stomach, which has been swirling with terror since I glimpsed Heather’s photo. My eyes flit across each surface.
The bedroom Viktor kept me in had a painting just like that one. The kitchen was just the same. That bathroom?—
No, Lucy. You cannot panic.
I need to keep cool. Relaxed. Focused. Stay grounded. If I lose control, I’ll never get away, never get a chance to help Heather.
